


Quiet, Old Songs

by trashcan_cat



Series: Ballads [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Battle, Betrayal, Blood Magic, Blood and Violence, Bonding, Child Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Dark Fantasy, Emotional Manipulation, Family Dynamics, Found Family, Healthy Relationships, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Injury Recovery, Magic-Users, Multi, Mutilation, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Original Universe, POV Alternating, POV Third Person Omniscient, Past Character Death, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, References to Ancient Roman Religion & Lore, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Royalty, Sorry Not Sorry, Treason, Underage Drinking, Very very minor, War, World Travel, children are the victims of war, i have cried, not fanfiction, not for the faint of heart lol, pets are treated better then the characters, this is original, you will cry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:26:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29185494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcan_cat/pseuds/trashcan_cat
Summary: Meet a group of kids trying to survive in a rapidly changing world, one that humanity can't seem to keep up with.Out of sight, a plot brews to disrupt the peaceful way of life in Nedred.In Thaeysne, the population is turning against the king and disease in the south refuses to burn.Close to home, tensions are high and they begin to understand they have more to lose than their lives.
Series: Ballads [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142732





	1. The Crow Spoke Thus

**Author's Note:**

> Hey lol Ive spent a lot of time on this and I plan on updating twice a week, feel free to leave comments and criticisms :) HEAVY TW/// Violence and (???) gore also emerick is a smartass *chefs kiss*

**Rook Arnika - April 3rd 1286**

The sound of panting and plants whipping against clothes filled the dark, peaceful woods of Nosiagas. Mud squishing and slipping followed by the hard thud of a body cast birds to the wind, and again the marsh lay silent. He bit on his lip in an attempt to not cry out in pain from how awkwardly he fell on his foot. Rook pushes himself back up, breathing shallowly and looking around the woods with the glint of terror in his eyes. He put his weight on the side he could actually feel. His mud-soaked clothing clings to his shivering body, shoulders being the only part of him still clean. He sits upon his knees and looks over his shoulder, squinting to try to see through the fog and the night and the trees. His head turns slowly, watching the horizon.

In his few seconds of peace, the numbness of his fingers and foot finally takes full effect. The cold season in the South and the mud of Nosigas leaves for a freezing death trap for anyone not smart enough to take their time in the woods... Or someone who's running for their life in the dark. He cataloged his injuries from the events that took place in town. He remembers a man stomping on his arm, another one hitting him in the back of the head with something, something sharp covered in black icker being plunged into his boot... He exhales shakily and closes his eyes briefly. He raises his hand to his chest then flinches and gasps when it sends pain sky-rocketing up to his shoulder and neck. Broken ribs too, then. He grimaces at the mud, steading his breaths with his hand hovering over his ribs, then returns back to looking over his shoulder.

He gazes and stops breathing mid-exhale and his eyes track three torches through distant trees. 

He finishes his breath and slowly presses his hands into the mud. He pushes himself from the ground and a wave of dizziness hits him, sending him back into the mud. He wobbles, heart rate picking up as he realizes how much time he is wasting. Standing again, he holds his arms out to keep his balance, the hobbles behind the nearest tree. He closes his eyes, awaiting the inevitable sound of footsteps and shouting.

Waiting silently the memories slowly seep back in. The memories of blood and freedom, the body of a woman in his arms, the sound of a door being kicked in. He shudders inwardly. _I didn't want to do it,_ He began to rationalize, _I was helping her. I was trying to help._ Images become more vivid and he recalls coming home through his window. His mother sat at the table, staring at the wall with sunken lightless eyes. He remembers how cold her hands were. How cold she was.

His eyes open widely when he hears two sets of footsteps significantly closer than he expected. He straightens his back against the tree in order to be better hidden, the images of her body and her hands still swirling in his head. Two sets of footsteps make their way through the sucking mud a lot easier than he did. He hears no voices. They haven’t found him yet, he still has a chance. He isn’t dead yet.

“Somethin’ was struggling here, yah see’er?” A very close very clear voice makes him flinch and nearly bang his head off the tree.

“Aye, and here!” Another voice says a mere few feet on the other side of the tree. A shot of adrenaline runs through his body and he lowers his shaky hand to his side where his knife sticks out of his belt. He exhales slowly and deeply as the footsteps continue to approach, seemingly closing in on his spot.

“Say, Mika, why’re we even still out here? That kid got a shot of Rubar, Rook they said his name was. He's gonna die anyway, why’re we here? Inda dark? Must've been pretty bad, that house.”

“Can't say I saw anything myself. Ky knows, he saw. Said sum’ bout the kid killing his old lady with black magic. Poor old bat. She didn't even speak anymore. I’m wondering what the little beast did to her.”

The voice on his right scoffs. “I’d gut him myself for his witchcraft, you know? Nothing like that deserves to live, not unless it's fighting for us!” He says with a bit too much humor in his voice. 

Their stupid war. He wasn't meant to be a soldier, he's not even old enough to be sent to the front. He would have dodged the draft if he... Well, he’ll dodge the draft if he makes it out of this alive. His head stuck on the phrase “shot of Ruabar”. Did they infect him? Was he going to die? His heart sinks as he remembers her hands again. He may as well run off and join. He has already killed, it's better than most of the boys out there that have been sewing their whole lives. Maybe the military alchemists can heal him. He smiles bitterly and his vision blurs as tears fill his eyes. He didn't want to hurt her. Is he really a beast? His grip tightens on his knife as his heart leaps out of his chest at the sound of shouting somewhere nearby. One man snorts. 

“Looks like they ain't got no more conviction than us. Don't wanna drag no hellspawn home. Prolly say he died out here on his own accord.” He inhales shakily and closes his eyes in relief, tears running down the through the mud on his face.

“Cowards, the lot of them,” The other man says disapprovingly, seemingly much more relaxed than before. “Lemme look round some more and I'll catch up.”

“Don't get lost.” The other man says, voice rapidly getting quieter. His footsteps recede and the man still nearby sighs and mutters something. Rook tightens his hand on his knife, shaking again. _Please leave,_ he repeats internally. _Please go and leave me alone_ , _please go away. I'm sorry._

“I know you're out here. Little things like you couldn’t make it far.” He chuckles, “Imma skin you and take your hide home you know. I'll be called demon-slayer. You deserve it, you know it. Who goes about killing their old lady like that.” He makes a few clicking noises with his tongue. “Nothing deserving of life.”

Rook inhales shakily, trying to count up in order to calm himself down. He knows what he has to do. He is too tired, too delirious, and too injured to make a run for it. He doesn't know this part of the woods. The footsteps grow closer but the man's voice is drowned out by the rhythmic beating of drums in his head, right along with the numbers he counts up to. The beating grows louder and voices fill his mind chanting something incoherent. He's remembering a funeral. The chanting and shouting and drums and dancing. Crows. He opens his eyes as a weight settles on his shoulder, and looks into green, sadistic eyes. The drumming stops and he is left in the lasting silence of the marsh yet again.

The man smiles, and as if remembering himself, Rook seizes up and shoves the man away, tripping over his numbed foot in the process. He slips through the mud to stand and instead with a sharp ceaseless pain in his face and stars in his head. 

The world darkens and shifts unnaturally around him as the taste of blood fills his mouth and he feels hot liquid drip down his lips. He feels for the knife that was cats out of his hand when the boot made impact with his face. The dampened sound of iron on leather sends a shrieking noise through the air. Gasping as the pressure springs in his ribs, Rook drags himself through the mud to retrieve his knife from nearby. He hears the man drawing in again, and forgetting his knife, he turns and flings mud into the man's face. He watches the man take pause only long enough to half-heartedly wipe mud from his face, then glance at Rook. He stares up at him, breathing heavily, and watches as the man moves over him. The man smiles down at him and raises his sword, and Rook makes an X over his face and kicks out. The man gasps and his sword thunks sickeningly on the ground. He huffs, face red with rage as Rook stares back at him in horror. 

The man lunges at the helpless boy, neglecting his sword, and wraps his hands around Rook's neck as he screams hoarsely and tries to get the man off. He claws at the man's hand, then tries grabbing his face, gasping for air and half pleading for his life. The man smiles deeply and his grip tightens, watching the light fade from the boy's eyes. 

Rook continues struggling, barely remembering that his knife was nearby. He reaches out for it, and the moment his hand makes contact, the man has enough sense to look up at what he's doing. Rook closes his eyes and blindly stabs the man, and without opening his eyes, shoves the man off in his panic. When he opens his eyes, he sees the knife protruding from the side of the man's dirty unguarded neck. 

Rook freezes most of the way through backing up and watches as the man swipes weakly at his throat. Blood pours down his neck like water in a creek. Blood dribbles from his cracked lips. Tears shine in the man's eyes as he stares in awe of the gasping boy. He breathes hoarsely in once, fighting for air. Twice. The man pales and falls onto his hands, then to the ground, no longer fighting for oxygen.

He stares at his work for a long time, he watches the blood pool and mixes with the mud they were fighting in. His breathing steadies, still staring at the man. He puts his hands on either side of his body and moves the stand, but a wave of nausea overtakes him. He covers his mouth, a pit forming in his stomach and his mouth filing sour saliva. He stands half bent over for a long time, eyes closed as a cold sweat forms on the back of his neck and down his arms. When he feels his nausea settle into only a spinning feeling in his head, he again opens his eyes and sees the man's eyes staring at him.

He flinches and takes a step back, and when the eyes don't follow him, he just stares. The rising sun reflecting in the man's dead eyes almost makes him look alive. Almost. “I..” Rook croaks. He grimaces and closes his eyes, hand on his throat. He sounds like a different person. His voice rocks and cracks like it never has. Before this wretched day he sounded downright bright. Thinking about yesterday was enough to make him want to cry. “I'm sorry.” He whimpers quietly, voice thick with emotion. 

“I'm so sorry. I'm sorry.” His hands find their way over his face shaking with fatigue and emotion, muffling the sound of his whimpers. He killed that man. He wasn't helping him, he wasn't freeing him. That man died alone in the marshes. The townsfolk will come to find his body with bugs in his mouth and flies laying eggs in his throat. He killed this man and couldn't even do him the right of prayer, he doesn't know any. He inhales shakily, and slowly removes his hands from his face, breathing through the pain in his chest. He can't just leave the man. 

Rook looks numbly around the marsh and stumbles over the man's sword. He tries to pick up the blade and yelps when it pulls him down to the ground. He sucks air in through his teeth, suppressing a cry. The jarring movement sent fire through his ribs. He struggles to his feet again and drags the sword behind him. It is set beside the body and he rolls the man on his back. He straightens the man's legs and finds two stones to place over his now closed eyes, it was the next best thing to coins. His massive sword lay over his body, hands draped loosely over the hilt. 

The boy pulls up his pant legs and looks out into the woods, the now mostly risen sun blinding him. _They'll come looking for you,_ He thinks and looks back down at the man, _You won't be alone for long._ He settles on his knees beside the corpse and clasps his hands together. “I... I can't pray for you. I’m sorry. I’m gonna..” He inhales sharply and looks away from the man. _Corpses can’t hear._ He reminds himself. _What's done is done_ . He shakes his head, raising a hand to his forehead. _He deserves better than that. He was protecting himself...No, his way of life. Slaying the monster._ He exhales wearily. 

He rubs his sticky hands on his pants, not caring to know if it's mud or blood on them. “Down in yonder hill,” he sings shakily, “There lay a knight slain ‘neath his shield. His soul-soaked through the dawn-lit ground. May our Lord bless his stone crown, buried in the memory of the man he onced want be. Do-” His voice cracks, and he swallows and continues. 

“Down derry, down down, down derry derry down.” 

He finishes, voice wavering, and closes his eyes in defeat. He rubs his hands together momentarily and scans the man's body one last time. His eyes finally focus on the knife sticking out from his neck and is caught off guard by how vulnerable he truly is here. He numbly reaches out and grabs the blood-sticky handle with a white-knuckle grip. He looks away and stiffly, carefully, pulls the knife from his skin. The feeling makes him nauseous again. Without looking, he wipes the knife on his pants, then shoves it back in his belt. He stands, ignoring his churning stomach and bleary eyes, and limps off into the woods. 

**Emerick Sease - April 3rd 1286**

Clashing metal rings through the air of the inset arena. Sand is kicked up, one man stumbles into the other clumsily, and both hit the ground in a great big metal heap. A man resting his elbows on the wall of the adjacent crowd seats scoffs and stands upright. As he wipes his sweaty brown hair from his forehead a short woman in all white clothes darts over holding a neatly folded white linen out to him. The man notices her and smiles.

“Thank you, Tasha. I promise these old fools haven’t tired me out. It's just so damn hot.” He says, skating his eyes over the white fabric draped over her black hair, then looks to the sky, “Nice weather for a ride, not for much else.”

“It is indeed. Would you like me to prepare the horses for a day ride? Or perhaps a swim?” She asks, bowing her head slightly. “My lord Emerick.” She quickly adds, holding the linen farther out. 

Emerick frowns and takes the fabric, sighing as he unfolds it and rubs it over his hair unceremoniously. 

“No, but thank you. Just taking a short break to talk to my father about getting better soldiers.” He smiles wittily at her and she smiles and covers her mouth. 

“Of course my lord.” She removes her hand and looks up at him dutifully. “May I speak plainly?” 

“Of course, Tasha. You can always speak plainly with me.”

She smiles. “I know you miss traveling, I can see it. We, your staff, are so happy you have returned, though. Your brother, bless his soul, never treated us with such kindness.” She pauses as if trying to find a perfect way to phrase the next sentence. “If you are to leave again, I would humbly ask on behalf of your house that we accompany you.” She looks at her feet. “My lord.”

“Of course, Tasha.” He says immediately, looking back down into the arena. “I'm convinced you three hate it here more than I do.”

“I-...” Tasha starts anxiously but seemingly cools off. She looks critically at the stones beneath their feet, then smiles. “I couldn’t say, my Lord. I’m just a handmaid blessed by a family greater than mine.”

They both smile knowingly, no longer looking at each other. In respectful silence, Emerick hands her the linen and she bows out, scurrying off towards the tower at the far end of the stands. 

He scans his way up the tower, then across the arena. The large circular fighting ring and stands connect to the Hall, or Keep, like a bur to the side of a horse. The Hall itself, matching the sandy color of the arena, is a high-walled mostly featureless structure with a few jutting stones or windows that spot the surface. In each corner, there is a tower, and on the side opposite to where he now stands, there is another arena. 

Emerick runs his hand through his forever untamable hair and turns to look at the steps behind him. He walks up the two steps at a time to be at the highest set of seats and looks out over the outer wall into the courtyard. Buildings and sandy trails litter the Bailey, and he watches the workers wander around dragging goats, leading horse-wagons, carrying things on their shoulders and heads. Merchants in the stalls line the spaces in between large storage buildings along the keep wall far across the yard from Emerick. That wall is higher and thicker than any wall in the Keep or in the arenas and protects all of the people who live and work for the Lord of Klezerleb, Lambert Sease. 

Emerick rubs his eyes with one hand and pushes himself from the outer stand wall. He makes his way back down the stairs, passing dozens of empty seats, then follows the path Tasha took through the heavy tower door. 

He follows the carpeted spiral steps down and through a hall lined with empty standing armor, soldiers, and large paintings of scenery and past lords. 

As he nears the big open throne room, he can hear the sound of his brother Jakob and his father arguing, and a smaller meek voice trying to get their attention. A normal morning, sure, but something about their tone seemed anxious. Almost panicked. He jogs the rest of the way into the room and stops just as the hallway ends. He looks out towards the throne on the opposite wall, bows his head to no one in particular, and walks into his room with his hands behind his back. 

His brother, standing on one of the three steps ascending to the “throne” wears a soft-looking bright and yellow embroidered tunic haphazardly shoved into a belted brown pair of braises. The other man- looking a little silly- wears a floppy black hat with a red feather coming off the side, a plain back tunic, and red trousers. By the mud and sweat on his person, he traveled far and fast to get to Klezerleb. 

The strong-looking white-haired man wearing decadent blue and gold robes sits in the biggest chair behind a table with a large map on it. He tracks Emerick into the room with his eyes and holds up his large calloused hand to silence the two younger men's squabbling. 

Emerick uncomfortably walks in between the two men staring daggers into each other on the steps and bows deeply to his father. 

“Lord Lambert.” He says stoically, rising quickly enough his hair whips up and back. 

The older man sighs and forms his hand into a fist. “Why are you here, Emerick?” He asks tiredly.

“Why are you arguing with a messenger, Father?” He responds curtly and the older man frowns deeply. “I came here to make a fuss about something but I can’t even recall what, I’m too curious as to what I walked in on.”

Jakob rolls his eyes as their father lays his hand flat on the table, seemingly searching for words. Emerick shifts uncomfortably under their knowing gazes, not even noticing the silly man bow deeply and scramble out of the room.

“Emerick…” His father begins, “You know of the lands of the north, the borderlands?”

“The Aglers, bores or royal pains in the ass, as I hear it. The cold makes them bitter.” Emerick rolls his eyes to his brother as he muses. “Why?” 

“I’d recommend you hold your tongue, great warrior,” Jakob murmurs.

“Or what?” Emerick responds immediately, “You’ll duel me? I’d like to see you try.” 

They both jump slightly when their father bangs his hand on the table. Both men stare at him tensely. 

“I tire of your childish games.” The old man says with little emotion in his voice. “Both of you. The future lord of the most powerful state in Nedred and his brother, the greatest warrior in the state. I expect you to act better than peasant boys, at the very least.”

Jakob looks at his feet and Emerick stares at the man balled fist sitting upon the table. White knuckles. He looks into his father's eyes. A few seconds boring into each other's souls and Emerick looks away first.

“The young Agler woman is to be your bride this spring.” Emerick looks back at his father intensely. “You will unify our nations for the first time in our history. They will be arriving in a week's time. You will prove yourself to your nation and to your Lord beyond the games you play, is that understood?”

Emerick stares at the man wrapping his hands into balls. Stiffly, he looks down at his feet. “Yes Lord, I understand.”

“Get out of my sight, the both of you. Jakob, send in the maids to clean this mud out of my hall.”

Emerick turns and walks out with hurried steps, not looking up from the floor, hundreds of voices thundering in his mind like howling dogs. 

_Run. Fight. Blood. Why would he do this? Go. Agler? Escape, now. Fight. Run. Fuck. Last chance. The sea. Get away. Arena. Go back. Blood. The ocean. Scream. Run. Fight._

Something grabs hold of Emerick's shoulders and he freezes up, looking into the familiar brown eyes of Tasha. “...Sir! Are you okay?”

He scowls at her and looks around. He is outside the keep, by the horse stables in the Bailey. 

“Uh… Uhm.” He closes his eyes and turns his head back to Tasha. “Ho- How did I get out here?” 

She smiles with concern in her eyes. “You walked, my Lord. You walked out from the throne room.” 

“Yes, right.” He half-smiles. “Of course, thank you, miss.”

“Do you need anything, my lord? Are you alright?”

Emerick, still dazed and scanning the area, opens and closes his mouth. “I...Uh… How long were you trying to get me attention, Miss Tasha? Er, no, don't answer that.” He scratches the back of his head and backs away from her reach. He smiles. “Could you, if it's no trouble, fetch Klagan from the western ring? Tell him to meet me? He will know where. I would like to saddle my own horse.” 

Tasha nods slowly, her toothy smile returning. “Yes, of course. I'll fetch him at once.”

The beaten paths of the highlands were practically game trials compared to the paved paths of the towns and cities. Klezerleb is one of the most urban states of Nedred, and is the largest second to only Stalward, the land the Aglers hail from. It also may be the most diverse- The people and the terrain. Far to the east were the sandy beaches and inland marshes, the west had lukewarm cliffs towering over the temperamental sea. The keep fit perfectly between the two, high up on a cliff met with more hill-like land to the side. The people come from all around the world for many reasons- Fame, money, power, trade. Merchants from the distant islands of the Three Cities, Holy Men from the western states, Knights and their women from the Capital state, and everyday people looking for work. 

Emerick rode a horse down one of these game trails, a great brown towering beast with a black mane and feet, set with a black saddle. They rode in a half gallop past the farmlands far in the distance, patches of trees and long flowing fields of green and gold grass. He holds the reins tightly, focusing on where the horse would naturally lead him. A crack of lightning makes him flinch and refix his gaze to his left, towards the ocean. Far off over the sea, storm clouds brew, casting a mist of rain down beneath them. He inhales sharply and pulls gently on the reins.

“Whoa, Iosa.” He says, leaning back slightly as the horse slows. He rubs his hand over her mane and leans forward slightly on her neck, watching the clouds. “A bad storm brewing over there. You probably heard it, huh?” He sits upright again looking at the horse's quirking ears. “I'll get you home before it rains.” He says. He swings his leg from over the horse, taking his time to place his foot on the stirrup before he steps off completely. He throws the reins over Iosa’s head and dutifully leads her into some shorter grass closer to the edge, but still a safe distance away. He pets her mane one more time, smiling, then makes his way to the very edge of the cliff. He sits with his legs crossed and digs his hand into the short salt-bitten grass and closes his eyes, listening to the waves crash violently far beneath him. 

The howling in his head is clearer near the sea, where he was more focused and disciplined. It took him a long time to realize that the sea was the trick to quieting them, only after he realized that he was one of the unlucky Klezerlias.

Each state has its special people, he recalls, the ones who are lucky enough to have the blood of the first settlers run through their veins. Across Nedred, some of these special people may be blessed with the ability to lie better than some, others may be able to start fires by just thinking about it. It varies, person to person, the intensity of their specialness or of their ability to control it. It almost always comes about after the age of seven. For special Klezerlias, it's historically called “ _Hearing the Oceans_ ”. 

Emerick, however, was unlucky, just like many of the great warriors. For them, it was “ _Drowning Above Water_ ”. They would get hundreds of overlapping voices born from their own consciousness. Emerick never got to speak with the ocean, he never got to have it hum it to sleep like his eldest brother. His other elder brother, the one that was actually going to be the next lord, Roland. They were close, but over time the ocean drowned out their father's demands, he escaped and left his younger brothers his responsibility. 

Jakob never understood him like Roland. Even before the specialness developed for Roland, the three of them were taught ways of constructively honing voices into fruition. Jakob never had the weight of it- The responsibility. He was second, though, so he made it his priority to become a soldier in his brother's guard. He studied war and battles and horsemanship. Roland was a gifted student in his own right, beyond the voices. He learned politics, law, the specialness of Nedred. They prepared for greatness, and Emerick was left in their dust.

When Roland left, Jakob was sworn to his duty of becoming Lord. They were all broken up and Emerick only had the one thing he always had; The voices. When all else failed, the voices wanted blood, and his older brother wasn’t there to guide him anymore. He turned to the next best thing; The Arenas. While Jakob eagerly learned sportsmanship and politics while he learned the correct way to hold a sword and dance with it. It was his art and his muse, and he was _good_ at it. For the first time in his life, he was _better_ than his brothers. 

The Arenas have always been a staple of Klezerleb’s culture. The first settlers in this area designed them to keep from going crazy. Huge ones spot the land and halls dedicated to the greatest of the arena fighters were protected like they were churches. He had found a way to prove himself to his father, to be a part of his culture and his family.

At the age of nine, he demanded the house guard to train with him. Emboldened by his victory against everyday foot soldiers hired by his father, he paid the fine to join a Tournament at 11 under an alias. There he won second place and proceeded to travel the state with his house under the very same alias; Mursu Gambit. After the bloodfest that was the decennial Fireflight Tournaments (which he won at 14), his alias became a household name across Klezerleb. 

_Run. Go. Return. Take the horse and run._

He opens his eyes and makes an unhappy humming noise. Thinking about his time away was painful. Returning to the Keep was the hardest decision he ever made, but his nation needed him. 

“ _The Kaiser is getting old,”_ His father had told him, “ _And we need to show ourselves to be more stable after you have weakened us.”_

He scoffs and holds his head in his hands. “I don’t know what to do, Iosa. I don’t know where I'd go...” He slams his hand on the ground. “I don't want to marry some stuck-up cold bitch Agler! Why is he making me do this?! He knows! He knows I don’t want to, and he’s fucking going through with it anyway!” He slams his hand again. “Dammit!” He grabs a handful of his hair and groans in pain as voices go back to roaring his head, summoning him to the ocean or summoning him away. 

He stays with his hands on either side of his head and eyes shut tightly for a long time. He doesn't hear the eventual galloping down the game trail into the little clearing above the water. Nor the two feet hitting the ground roughly.

“Emmy, are you okay?” The voice- Klagan, no one else calls him Emmy- says from behind at his level. His small hand is placed on Emerick’s shoulder and when he twists away from it, Klagans mouth forms a tight line. 

“Ah, I see. Okay.” Klagan says more clearly and stands again, moving to sit about a foot to the side of Emerick. It was a safety thing. Emerick had to be clear with Klagan when they first met, but over time the other understood far more than Emerick told him. “Would you like to talk?”

Emerick shakes his head.

“We can just watch the water then,” Klagan replies coolly and Emerick listens as Klagan thuds on the ground. 

Emerick remains silent for a long time, listening to the waves crash and slip back down again. The voices prefer the company of no one but him, but Emerick prefers the company of Klagan. It makes them more digestible.

_Listen. Storm. Quiet. Fight. Waves. Hush. Rain._

After what is supposedly a few minutes, it truly felt like seconds, Emerick loosens his hands and opens his eyes, gazing out into the storm approaching the cliffside. He exhales deeply, getting the attention of Klagan. He watches Emerick from his lying position, then sits up slowly. 

“Better now?” Klagan asks, swiping his dirty blonde hair from his face. Emerick nods. He rubs his aching neck and stretches. “Were you at work?”

“No, I was sleeping. Tasha let me off the hook this evening, told me to rest up for dinner, no one cares about library tidiness on the weekend.” He says happily, holding his hands in his lap. 

“It's so late, I can't possibly imagine how you could sleep.” He replies, finishing his sentence with a sigh and a smile. He closes his eyes and faces up at the sun again. “Sorry I dragged you all the way out here.”

“It's okay, Emmy. I can sleep practically anytime. I wanted to see you anyway.” Klagan says and Emerick opens his eyes and looks at him, “I've missed you. I work for you, specifically, and I never see you.” 

“Yeah.” Emerick rubs the back of his head, looking at the grass. The arenas had occupied most of his time since returning home. Aside from the cliffside, it's the only time he could get some quiet. “I've been distracted.”

Emerick can feel Klagan watching him, but neither of them speaks. It's not necessarily uncomfortable or tense, it's just heavy with questions neither of them wants to ask. 

“Emerick.” Klagan starts and Emerick lowers his head. “What's going on with you? You are worrying me.” 

Emerick’s hand finds its way to the back of his head again as he is reminded of the anxiety that drove him here. 

“Tasha told me you looked rough in the yard. She said you were walking around but you weren’t all there, you were _distracted_ or something.” He pauses, and when Emerick doesn’t respond. “I can’t help you unless you talk to me, Emmy.”

Emerick rubs the shorter hair on the back of his head, studying the grass. He shuts his eyes momentarily. “I’m to marry the daughter of Lord Agler this coming spring, and I can’t stop it.” 

Klagan watches him blankly for a long time then looks out to the ocean, placing his hand on the ground between them. “Looks like we need to stay longer than we thought.”

Emerick places his hand on top of Klagan’s. “Yeah. Looks like.” 

**Amelia Dirk - April 8th 1286**

Laughter erupted around the crackling, half-dead fire. Two soldiers in disheveled steel-plate armor- Partially on their bodies and partially strewn about the camp- stood snickering. They each held dented tin tankards filled with dry ale. 

The shortest of the two, a strong looking raven-haired woman with a dented normal helmet sat crookedly on her head, stared spitedly into the embers, the dying light dancing in her gray eyes. 

The man across from her stood swaying and giggling like a child, freehand rubbing his heavily bandaged face. Her eyes followed up his lanky body and she caught her smile slip when she saw the bandages covering his eyes. He looked up at her, still grinning as if he could see her through the bandages. 

“Say, Amelia, I bet our King wouldn't approve of the way you’re wearing your helmet!” He chuckled and she lit up again immediately.

“Right, of course, sir! He shouldn't have to see how ill-mannered we magic folk are! Shouldn't be drinking, either!” She said in a thearctically gruff voice, pouring the remains of her ale into the fire, making it pop and darken further, then dropping the cup in after it. “That's right, sir!” She said standing at attention much too quickly and in the process wracking her fingers off the helmet. 

She yelped and the bandaged man doubled over cackling at her childish response to something that really didn’t hurt that much. She glared at him, holding her fingers tightly. She smiled sadistically after a moment of watching him cough and nearly spill his tankard.

“Marques, that isn't how you address your King, now is it!? Stand at attention soldier, clean my shoes, lend me your life or diiiie!” She hissed, unable to stop the laughter bubbling up from her chest. 

She planted herself down on her side of the fire’s log as her partner caught his breath, hand on his knee and tankard raised towards her in his other hand. He tilted it. “Here’s to me having more drink then you because you're dumbass spilled your ration, and here's to you having fun for the first time in your whole life.” He said, wobbling again, then downed the rest of his ale in one solid gulp. He sank down onto his log as if he were an old man and sighed deeply, watching her smile through the bandages again. 

“You know damn well you didn't know me before this.”

“You’re damn lucky we met here!! Your life would be so bland and bureaucratic. ‘Ms. Cent this Ms. Cent that.’ Never-ending whining.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose as he leaned back against nothing. 

“You’re damn lucky we showed up at the same time,” she shot back, “Starting a fight with the men you are supposed to lead? On your first day, no less.”

She could feel him rolling his eyes in the back of her mind and she shook her head, strands of straight hair falling in her face. “Woulda been dead if I hadn't beat some sense into them.” She said, smiling slyly.

“Look here, missy.” He said, leaning forward and pointing an accusatory finger at her. He sat there for a few moments thinking of something to say. “I'm older than you.” He said finally, very firmly. 

Amelia choked on air and followed by a fit of half coughing and half laughing. Her head felt heavy and numb from all the ale she'd been drinking since the sunset. She vaguely remembered the darkness consuming the woods to their side in the evening, then the entire field in a matter of minutes after that.

The only light besides the dying fire and their own tents was the larger main camp some distance away from them. Not quite a dot on the horizon, certainly. Maybe a 15-minute walk if they were stopping to look at all the flowers, easily less on their mounts. 

“Marques,” she said hoarsely, “We don't even know our birthdays!” She howled, along with her male counterpart. She felt a twinge in the back of her head and covered her mouth suddenly, silencing herself. She had lost track of Marques but across the fire he had frozen too, both of them sitting in the tense realization that someone they didn't know was approaching them.

Their 6th senses worked hand in hand with each other- It made them powerful allies and better friends. They were Malix. They were cast out of society, traded and enslaved bred, imprisoned, killed, and used for cannon fodder in this stupid war. They were often compared to the mutants of Nedred, they say the Malix and the Nedredians had the same blood flowing through their veins. When the war started on those in Nedred, so to the war truly started on the Malix. 

They were kept in the Dikland prison, an island in the Ostalian Sea that housed every Malix ever rounded up that wasn't killed or forcefully enlisted in the military.

Amelia spent her life living in a small stone box with one barred window too high above her head to reach. She was one of the dangerous ones, the guards would say. She lived in isolation for years. When she was brought out into the light and given the choice to die where she stood- Her whole life was spent on some miserable rock in the middle of the ocean- Or join the king's army. 

So she did.

And at the same time, a little blonde-haired, bandaged up boy did the same on some other part of that stupid rock. 

“Amelia,” Marques said, causing her to flinch at the man who had appeared at her side. He seemed much more alert than before, face tense as if he was scowling under those bandages. “They probably saw our fire. If they were dangerous we would already be dead.” He whispered urgently as Amelia found herself through the thick fog in her head. Drinking on duty- Mother, she's stupid. 

“They are out in the trees-” 

“20 paces away.” She said, interrupting him, her eyes were suddenly much darker than their normally dull gray. Marques looked at her knowingly, not daring to interrupt her while she jumped. 

Amelia Dirk spent her life in that box for fear that she would develop powers. She was born in Dirkland, she never knew her parents and assumes they were killed as soon as she was born. She was practically raised to be a soldier loyal to only the King, and parental relationships would get in the way of that. 

When she was young, maybe 7 or 8, the guards began to take notice of her simply zoning out in the prison yard while the other Malix children played, careful to not use magic outside. 

They grilled her for weeks.

Back then, she didn't think anything was weird about her play. She thought everyone had a “heightened sense of empathy”. She thought everyone could, if they tried hard enough, could see the world through another person's eyes, hear their thoughts and with a lot of practice speak to them as if she was just a voice in their head. The burning metal spikes they shoved under her nails taught her better than that, though. 

She was “unpredictable”. That meant years of isolation. Years of practice throwing herself into the eyes of rats that would wander her cell. They thought they had trapped her, but they made her free. She knew every inch of that prison. She knew every guard's name, every hallway, every cell number- The rats taught her. They taught her to jump from one to another, to be in multiple at the same time, to feel what they felt. She made herself an army. She could never be them, no, but she could feel like she was them. 

“He’s hurt, Marq.” She said in a hushed tone, almost breathless. “He’s scared.” 

Marques lowered himself closer to Amelia instinctively as if something was about to jump out of the dark and bite at her. She put her hand to her temple and wavered slightly, shutting her eyes, then opening them back to their normal emotionless gray. She rose slowly, holding her hand down to Marques to signal that he needed to stay low to the ground. She quickly scanned the woods and focused on a slight reflection no more than ten feet away. The moon in his brown eyes.

“You don't need to be scared.” She said in her normal tone of voice. Strong but not overbearing. “We are the Kentarchs of the Primara MAS Cohort. We have food and beds.” She spoke into the dark. Amelia took a step towards the woods and froze, wincing at the hurried panic sounds of bushes then a thud. She put her hands in the air slightly and spoke again in a gentler tone. 

“My name is Amelia Dirkland, this man is my friend, Marques Dirkland.” She paused, never wavering. “We are Malix, him and I. We have heightened senses, we could both feel you coming. We aren't going to hurt you, we just want to help.” 

There was a long pause, then the sound of something being dragged through the mud. Slowly, a hunched, emciated figure emerged from the woods. 

It was a boy who didn't look older than 15 years old covered in blood and mud. If he wasn't moving, he could have easily been mistaken for a corpse. His eyes were wide and he twisted his bloody hands around something small held close to his chest. He flinched hard when Amelia took a step forward and his hands flew to cover his face, revealing the knife he had. 

Amelia didn't move to back up or continue forward, she didn't meet the boy's gaze instead favoring the ground. She could feel Marque's warmness leave her side, silently going to get food or blankets. The boy took another step back, moving side to side slightly as if he were trying to watch both soldiers. Again, his hands twisted around the knife, seemingly unaware of the wound he was driving into his hand. Amelia looked up at him and took a step back casually, then sat on her log still facing the boy. She set to work unbuckling her armor and her sword belt, which she was careful to set on the ground silently. Every so often she looked up to make sure the boy was still there despite herself. 

Marques returned and cleverly wrapped the small bread loaf and salted fish in linen and set it on the log opposite to them, then returned to Amelia's side where he sat on the ground. The boy watched them like a hawk, gaze alternating between them and the food. In the ever-dying light, Amelia could make out his ripped-up long sleeve tunic and mud-caked trousers. His brown hair was matted but she couldn't tell with what.

He stepped to his side slightly, staring at them as if they were about to attack him, then scurried to the other log, falling to his knees as he clambered to grab the bread and fish. Backing up spastically on his one hand, holding the food and linen close to his chest having apparently dropped the knife somewhere. He stared at them and swung his legs into a folded position and put the food in his lap and wrapped the linen around his bleeding hand haphazardly. He felt for the food and picked it up, taking a huge bite from the small loaf. He swayed slightly, hands going limp for a moment, then his eyes swung open again. 

Amelia and Marq sat unmovingly, Marq staring into the fire and Amelia switching her gaze from the boy’s face to his tattered state. She could feel him slipping away, she didn't need to jump to him to know. He probably hadn’t slept in days by the look of him. 

The boy looked towards them with a million-mile stare, sometimes remembering the food in his hand or the people he sat across from. He finished his bread but shortly after he started the fish, he had fallen asleep on himself. When the buzzing of fear in the back of Amelia's head stopped, she rose immediately, something tall and commanding about her now that her head was forcefully cleared. 

“Marques go find one of the Alchemists, tell them that it is an emergency and to bring all the healing salves they can spare.” She said and heard Marq’s quick footsteps receding behind her. He wasn't one to panic, but he certainly could follow instructions. Amelia paused and rubbed her hands together, watching the boy see if he had stirred. When she saw the steady rise and fall of his shoulders undisturbed, she walked over to him and squatted down beside him. She put her hand on his shoulder and then when he didn't react, she moved his food to the grass and hooked her arms under his knees and on his back. She rose with him easily, sending her mind reeling for a moment. She was strong, strong for her size, and he was practically a toddler to pick up. She turned and walked back towards the fire. 

The Kentarch campsite was separate for a reason. Military officials were required to not live amongst their men. It was a hierarchy rule made during the End Days to keep order. She and Marques were the leaders of around 100 soldiers, all stationed in the far south of Ylesia, right on the border with Nosigas, a poor, wet state made up of hunting and lumber villages, and La Guerra, the military state. Ylesia was one of the finer states, although not as populated as the east coast or Regla Sorre, the capital.

It was a lumber state, and huge rivers drew scars into the landscapes. Workers would dump their logs into them and send them downstream to Vehilio, Regla Sorre, Averal-Amica, and whatever was past the Autors. Good money in that, but you don't need many people to do it. 

Spotted throughout Ylesia were large plains. They were few and far between, but there was always. _Always._ A camp on the southern border. It was a pit-stop for traveling soldiers, a trading hall, a church. It was a lot of things. Now it was an army ready to stop oncoming attacks, but the war was on the border, so they stayed with little to do.

The two large marquee military tents were used for different things, though they had the same red, black, and gold color palette. The one to the right of the fire faced towards the woods, just like the other, but it was filled with supplies and had two horses who had been laying on the hay-covered ground comfortably. She focused on the tent to the left, well lit with oil lanterns, and ducked inside.

On either side of the room-sized tent were two beds with fine wooden bases. Each had an identical bed stand with different things covering their surfaces. In the middle of the room facing each other as if there was a wall between them were two desks and two bookshelves. Tables spotted empty spaces, the ones on the right covered with fabrics and metal tools and glass bottles. She looked to the left and walked towards her bed, passing tables stacked with books and papers, inkwells and bits of armor, bags and arrows. She stopped beside the bed and crouched to rest the boy on her knees while throwing the blankets off the bed. She didn't much care for the black linens that remained, they were easy enough to clean. 

She stacked her pillows on top of one another then laid the boy on the bed, careful to make sure she didn't move him awkwardly. He seemed comatose, didn't wake up no matter how she moved him. She sighed and rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand, ignoring how it shook slightly. 

She slowly began to truly understand the things she felt from him. Small, alone, afraid. Monstrous. She was unable to shake his feelings as she often couldn't after jumping. She sniffed and wiped her now dirty hands on her pants. She fully surveyed the boy, taking note of the bruising around his neck and arms. The linen wrapped around the boy's right hand was soaked with blood and sogging over the sheets. He had one barefoot and his other covered in a boot that seemed to have more mud in it than outside. There was a large slit in the foot of the boot stained with blood.

She looked at her bedside table and scanned it, before picking up a small sheathed dagger. She unclipped the button then pulled it from the metal casing. Putting the blade in her mouth between her teeth she tried to pull the boy's boot off. She stopped when his body tensed instinctively and he made a gurgling sound in his sleep.

“I'm sorry.” She says, “I'm going to have to cut your boot to figure out what you did to your foot.” Getting to work as a man patted his hand on the side of the tent opening, she looked over. She began cutting through the thick leather as if she had done it a thousand times. The familiar man standing in the doorway wore a big brown robe with a large black star on the front. He had a leather bag in his hand and had a pair of glasses on his tanned face. His left arm was fully taken by burn scars, gnarled and lumped, but he looked kind if not concerned.

“Hello, Folki.” Amelia said evenly, returning her eyes to her work. 

“Hello, Kentarch Amelia.” He bowed his head slightly and walked into the tent with poorly hidden quickness. Moments later, Marques was after him. 

Folki settled beside Amelia closest to the boy's head as the boot was taken from the boy's foot.

The smell hit them all first. The sickeningly sweet smell of rot and pus. Amelia back away impulsively, covering her nose. She listened to the darting steps behind her as she gazed at the now uncovered foot. 

“Folki…” She started and he sighed.

“I understand. It will get worse the longer we wait. He may be infectious.” He pauses, settling as he stared unflinchingly, “I have enough salve. But I fear the trauma his body has gone through will limit what it can do. I'm not sure-”

“We have to try, at least. We can… Clean and wrap his hand. Wait on the salve there. Focus on his leg.” Amelia said slowly, scanning him as if searching for an answer written on his skin.

Folki laughed humorlessly. “I forgot you were in the Norica Corps before here.”

Amelia nodded and stood, walking to one of her tables. She gathered a large bag identical to Folki’s in her hands, shoving her knife in it as she does so.

Before her arrival in Ylesia she was sent to the bloodbath that was southern Nosiagas. A plague had sprung there and they needed nurses, disposable nurses. She was allowed to keep her medical supplies. She doesn't like thinking about her time there. 

“Wouldn't it be better to move him?” Amelia turned to a paled Marques standing in the doorway, avoiding looking in the direction of the boy. She tried meeting his eyes but he wouldn't look up at her. 

“There is not much time to waste. Everything I have there you also have here, ever-efficient Miss and Mister.” He said in the same drawl tone as if he wasn't in a massive hurry. He seemed exceptionally good at hiding away in his head, but Amelia knew better than that. She could tell he was panicked. Losing any limb is practically a death sentence in the world they live in now, especially if her inkling about the stranger was right. 

Folki gestured for her to set her bag down and handed her a decently sized white bottle and a loose bit of cotton bandages. As if she had done it a hundred times before, she uncorked the bland bottle of odorless liquid and placed the cotton over the top, she then tipped the bottle and untipped it. The cotton was placed in the boy's mouth, the liquid would keep him asleep and if he did wake up he wouldn't be able to scream. 

As she did this, Folki removed a large inwardly curved knife from his bag, previously wrapped in rough cloth. The blade came along with a purple bottle and a gray bottle with a black flower on the front. He held the flower bottle out to her as he opened the purple bottle with his mouth. Amelia set it on the floor and looked around for a moment, then scowled and undid her final belt- the one that just held her pants up- and pulled it off. She approached the boy again, ignoring how the smell made her eyes water. 

She set the belt aside and cut up the rest of the boy's brais on his right leg, then tightly wrapped the belt around his thigh. 

The boy hadn't struggled through any of their assessing, but his breathing had grown shallower. Probably because of the impossible amount of bleeding from his hand or his dead lump of a foot. 

“We need to hurry up,” Folki said patiently. She looked up and he was holding his blade out. She made an apologetic sound and grabbed the flower bottle from beside her foot. She uncorked it and carefully dumped it over the blade. She grabbed linen from her own bag, doused it, and then, hesitating, gently rubbed the strong-smelling liquid up and down the boy's leg, focusing mainly on his mid-shin where the incision would be.

She knew she would hear the sound of metal cutting through bone again in her life, but never so soon. Maybe when they saw combat next. Not on her own bed on a strange boy she didn't know.

It was a wet crunching sound, like a dog with a very wet mouth biting into a marrow treat. She felt queasy watching the blade easily slide into the boy's skin, but watching the force exerted on the boy's rotting bone barely made her flinch. Folki, if he had it his way, would have made a seamless cut, but the boy was lacking in any fat or real muscle density. If it wasn't for his leg bloating he would have looked like a skeleton. 

The knife slid past the remainder of his tissue like butter, cutting skin like paper. She had seen it so many times before, but it was the look of his sickly skin that upset her. 

“Now,” Folki said, much more commanding and focused than before, as he took the knife away. Amelia darted over and onto her knees with the linen they had soaked in the pink liquid of the purple bottle. She covered the large wound tightly and blood-soaked into the fabric. She stared as the skin on the edge of his leg started to fold over the surface of the wound, knotty and slowly but it was working. 

Amelia felt a tap on her shoulder and took the next linen from the nurse. She repeated the process until significantly less blood was soaking into the linen. She felt anxiety lift from her head as Folki sighed behind her. The leg had disappeared, Amelia didn't notice Folki move it, or whatever he did with it. She heard him pouring liquid onto linen then watched him remove the now stiff, sticky rag from the boy's hand. He gently wiped the boy's hand down.

“Thank you, Folki.” Marques said from the doorway. Amelia had forgotten he was there. “I know it's late and this is expensive.”

“Nonsense,” Folki said, glancing at the taller man with kind brown eyes. “I wasn't sleeping, and we have no use for most of these except the occasional brawl. And I trust our Officers' judgment of strangers, it is one of your shared skills.”

Folki was Malix, too. Everyone in this camp was. 112 total magic users in one place, governing themselves, because they were the MAS Cohort. 

Amelia looked down at the boy again. She felt guilty. She, almost alone, made the decision that he was going to live this way. 

She thought back to the way he felt. The desperation she felt in the boy. He wanted to survive above all else, and he was doing whatever he had to to make it work. 

“Do you know his name?” Folki asked using Amelia’s knife to cut his shirt off.

“He didn't speak, barely made any noise at all. He was like an animal.” Marq replied from the doorway, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He seemed distant and stunned, and still refused to look at the boy. “He came from the southwest though. He had to be walking a long time for his foot to become that infected.”

Folki paused his work cleaning the boy's hand looking unsatisfied. “I wonder what drove him out here.”

"I guess we are going to find out," Marq and Amelia said at the same time. 


	2. Fate Cannot Be Taken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia and Marq are trying very hard and Rookt wakes up twice. He likes his soup but notices something new.  
> Dedric does not like Klezerleb and Emerick is too defeated to change her mind. Daxton is just trying to make things go smoothly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI AHHH LOL HI IM BACK BABES  
> TW///// Mentions of past abuse and lots of angst with attempted comforting

**Amelia Dirk - April 13th 1286**  
  
Amelia drums her fingers on the table absently, reading over a letter with messy, loopy writing. She sighs and rubs her face, locks of uncovered black hair falling from behind her ear. She sits up and turns to the boy behind her, fast asleep in her bed. 

They had all been alert since that first night, and it left the Kentarchs exhausted. They cleaned the boy and Amelia washed his hair while Marq went off to go and distract himself. She and Folki worked hard to clean and wrap his hand and ended up wrapping his whole wrist when they found it was broken. They did what they could for his ribs, wrapped him not tightly in case he woke up, and panicked. They cleaned his face and put a bandage over his blackened eye, as well as a wrap to brace his nose which had been so broken it was purple on one side and the other protruding and white. The boy didn't wake up that day. Amelia had made a fatty soup out of provisions and soaked lightly a cloth in it, which she then put in the boy's mouth to allow it to slowly drip down. It was barely anything, but it was better than nothing at all. 

On the 11th his breathing was better. The bruising on his face had lightened ever so slightly, Marq had sworn up and down. Folki checked in midday and they all had talked about how the boy should stay here for his safety. By that point the new layer of skin had been fully formed over his shin-stump thanks to the salve that Folki had brought. Folki also brought his better fitting clothes rather than Marq’s huge ones. That evening he started fussing in his sleep and nearly tore the bandages off of his hand, and then started screaming at the top of his lungs like something was eating him. Marq, alone, had to hold him down to the bed so he didn't hurt himself. 

The morning of the 13th, Amelia woke up on the floor beside Marq’s bed and when she checked on the boy, he was still asleep. She had decided to stay in their camp this time to watch him as she went through her letters and wrote her own. Marq had his own things to do, which made her a bit confused and lonely. They did most things together and it was unlike him to be so distant. 

She stands and stretches. Walking the door of the tent, glancing out, then heading to the table at the foot of her bed, she hums a song under her breath. She rooted around through books, mind drifting to the menial tasks she had yet to complete. 

“ _ Im basically retired, and we are in the middle of a war. _ ” She thought as she picked up a book and opened it, scanning the random pages she had flipped onto. “ _ What sort of life is that? I just leave one day,” _ She mused, but without a smile. She knew better. She knew she would be shot before she even got close to the Ylesia border. She scowled, remembering her train of thought from the other day. What  _ was  _ past the Autors? Land? Or more states? She was never taught, probably because it was deemed unimportant. She sighed, closing her book and setting it on the table.

She paused, looking unsatisfied again. She then moved the books around the table, smiling slightly when she found the red leather-bound book. She walked back to her desk and opened the book to the first page while sitting down, already lost in the words. In large imprinted letters on the cover were the words “ _ Thaysene Atlas; A collection of works _ .”

She flips through the book, eyes finally focusing on a large colorful map with fine writing all of it. Notes along the margins. It seemed like the notes were drawn in after the book was printed, they were too irregular and dark to be printed on a press. She squints and leans down towards the book, reading the words, “ _ Ylesia”  _ imposed a strangely round state. Besides it, the words “ _ Del Bosco,”. _ She knows these places. The river was just to the west and led straight into Voler Lake. She found the lake on the map, just above the tiny dot that read “ _ Basa Circuga” _ . She smiles. That's where she is.

Her fingers trace the outline of the state and she stares in awe at how big the whole map is, Ylesia is just one of the 15 provinces in Theasyne. She scowls suddenly, hand freezing on the page as her eyes become unfocused and something in the back of her head screams in panic. She sits there for a moment like a deer in the headlights and jumps when she hears a thud from behind her. She closes her eyes and exhales slowly, then turns and meets the gaze of the only uncovered wide, sunken, brown eye from the ground. 

The boy was on his knees beside the bed as if he had fallen off and only then saw her. His pale tunic hung crumpled and loose off of his bone-thin body. He was an assortment of sharp angles and sunken notches. His collar bones sticking out too far from his weak shoulders and the memory of his concave stomach stuck in her head like wallpaper. His prominent cheekbones below bruise-colored eye bags. He shakes like a leaf and the bandages on his hand are disturbed. He is tangled in his blanket and looks like an animal caught just outside their burrow, frozen with fear.

She tentatively took her hand off the book resting on the desk and set it on her lap. They stare at each other for a long time as the boy's breathing gets more labored and shallow.

“Hey.” She says gently, trying to make herself non-threatening, and with those words, everything goes to hell.

The boy clambered and fell, trying to stand on something that was no longer there. Amelia rises and he scrambles backward on his hands, eyes never leaving her. When she started to walk towards him, arms out and stumbling over her words as she tried to calm him down, he shrieks horribly, covering his face. She freezes. He tries standing again and falls backward, cracking the back of his head off of one of her tables. He shoves himself under it awkwardly and ties himself up in a mess of limbs, now lacking the previous warmth the blanket gave him. The boy's limbs violently shake, likely out of fear or fatigue as they cover his face protectively, only his eye and mess of hair visible through his X-crossed arms. The bandage over his hand is rapidly growing crimson, now half off his hand. The look of him made Amelia’s skin crawl against her will. He looked like some strange circus creature from horror stories.

Her outwardly stretched hands shook slightly as she crouched on the ground. “I'm not trying to hurt you, okay?” She said and laughed nervously. Her forced smile instantly dropped when she notices the stitches on his palm were torn and the wound has worse than before.

“Uhm…” She swallows and looks back at the now frozen boy. “Im going to need you to come out of there, okay? You are bleeding. And I need too...” She trails off and puts her hand on the ground, approaching at his level. She stops about a foot in front of him and outstretches a hand again. He makes a noise like he is trying to talk through a scratched, damaged throat, but she only heard a mixture of whimpers and gurgling. 

He doesn't flinch, so she slowly places her hand on his undamaged wrist. He seizes up, eye now on her hand, and she- confidently- wraps her hand around his frail wrist. Amelia focuses on his wrist, how freakishly disproportionate it is to her hand. She felt she might snap it if she pressed even a little. She only looks back up at him in time to see his pupils widen and then roll back up into his head. His arm goes limp in her hand and her eyes widen. She reaches under the table and presses her fingers into the boy's neck. She stays for a second, then visibly relaxes. The panic in her head was now solely her own, even if she knew he was alive.

She slowly lowers her hand from the boy and rubs her face the way she had seen Marques do so many times before. She gets to her knees and reaches out for him. She uncurls his legs from his chest and pulls him out from under the table with her arm under his knees and hand on his shoulder. Running footsteps break her from the act and she looks at the door as she fluidly picks him up. Marques stands there, staring at her with terror in his eyes then to the boy cradled in her arms.

“Hey,” she said hoarsely as she turns and walks to the bed. He remains at the door, stunned. She carefully lays him down then sits beside his legs.

“What the hell happened, Amelia?” He asked, walking into the room and straight to her side. She picks up the roll of bandages from the bedside and leans him up into a sitting position, bracing him as she felt along the back of his head.

“He woke up and panicked.” No bleeding, thank god. She lays him down again and sets to work undoing the bandages on his hand and wrist. “I didn't know what to do.” She says thickly as Marques puts his hand on her shoulder and squeezes. “He wasn’t even like a person, Marq.”

“I'm sorry I wasn't here.” He says as Amelia finishes unwrapping the old bandage. The wrap sticks to his wound in little patches of fluff and she grimaces as she sees it pull on his raw skin. 

“You had things to do. He probably wouldn't have reacted any better. He was frozen when he saw me and I'm about as intimidating as a mouse.” She says as she reaches for the gray bottle with the black flower. Folki had told her to use it to clean his hand anything before it touched the wound. She opens it with her teeth and carefully pours somewhere the bandage is sticking. She manages to wiggle it free with only some still stuck. She sighs. 

Marq lets his hand fall from her shoulder and he walks to her desk, sitting down and groaning. “At least the kid didn't hurt himself gravely. He pulled his stitches pretty bad but you got it handled, looks like.” He says, looking over her shoulder. 

“Well, he banged his head off the table while trying to back up away from me. Pretty sure he has a concussion if he didn't already have one.” She pauses. “It was like he didn't realize his leg was gone.” She says, trying to pull the rest of the cotton from his wound without getting it dirtier. 

“Well, if he was panicking that bad, he probably didn't. It's not uncommon for people to still feel like their leg, or arm, or whatever isn't still there. It's called a phantom limb.” He slides his foot from his boot and brings his knee up to his chest. 

“How would you know that?” She asked, turning to look at him. “Anything to do with… You know.”

He laughs and looks at her through his bandages. “You know I was in the Corps at Haurhaus, I had friends before I had you.” He says. “Sweet guy named Adreikh, he lost his arm in an accident at the warehouse. His first few weeks were hell.” He pauses, smile disappearing. He sighs. “The weirdest part was, when I touched him- Like you know how it works- It was like his arm was still there. Not like it used to be there like it  _ was _ there.”

Amelia laughs humorlessly. “That's some spiritual garbage. Seeing history has its perks, didn’t know it bled into the present.” 

“You have bleed throughs too, don't lie.” He says as she wets the new bandage in the liquid. She begins wrapping it around the boy's hand and wrist, far tighter than last time. It was a temporary measure until Folki could come back, but she didn't want him to rip up his arm more. 

“Different kinds than you, Marq. Honestly don’t even understand how yours work sometimes.” 

“Well, you get bits of personality, I get bits of memories. We go in and when we come out, we take a little with us. That easy.”

She shakes her head. “Still don’t get it.” She laughs. He shrugs and faces her desk. His face tenses and he leans forward, placing his hand on the book as Amelia sticks the pin back in the wrap, pausing to look at the boy's face. Her hand finds its way to the side of his head and she scans his face. 

The blankets on the ground are picked up and tightly packed around the boy. Marq’s hand slips from the book. His lanky, rough fingers drum on the dark wood desk and he turns his body towards Amelia, face tense still. His mouth becomes a line. “Amelia.”

She looks over her shoulder from her spot on the bed, now on top of the blanket. She scowls when she sees the tension in his jaw. “What's wrong?” Her scowl deepens when he doesn't respond immediately. “Hey, Marq? You there?” She laughs dryly and repeats his name again, and this time he looks up and in her direction. 

“Oh, right. A messenger arrived in Ciruga... Probably new, he was in the medical tent looking for us like we would be anywhere near there. We are Kentarchs that don't make any sense. We aren't anything like nurses-”

“Marq. The messenger.” 

“Sorry, yeah. A messenger came from Fort Arch.” Amelia tenses and corrects her posture while fully turning to face him. Her pupils seemed to vibrate with a mixture of wild emotions. “From Legate Mot,” He finishes and she sighs, looking up at the roof of the tent. She stands and brushes her hand along the collar of her shirt, walking across the tent. She leans on the same table the boy had slid himself under and studies the mix of rugs and carpets beneath her feet.

The silence was jarring, even more so than the silences from after the boy had fallen off the bed. She sniffs harshly and runs her fingers over her lips. “So? What's the news?” She cracks a forced smile, “Can't be good, coming all the way from the top like that.”

“Nothing is set in stone, yet.” Marq presses and she laughs, “Amelia, all we know is that he is coming to Circuga with a few dozen soldiers. Within the next few weeks.” 

“Fuck,” she mutters and rubs her eyes, still with her one hand, “That's basically a confirmation that we are going to the front.”

“It could mean a million things,” He stands and approaches her, looking much taller than he would normally make himself. Amelia crosses her arms and looks up at him. He stops in front of her. “Could just be an inspection, you know how much they have changed protocol this year. Or a presentation to some Lord so we can get more funds. A million things.”

She decides it was easier to scowl at his chest than look up into blank bandages. Her hands tighten around her sleeves as she wishes she had something that could cover her eyes, too. She envies the anonymity it gives him. It was a fickle thing that it seems like everyone but her could manage to keep. Even the half-dead boy sleeping in her bed does a better job. Her glare drops immediately and her eyes find him, still and sleeping.

“Marq,” she says flatly, “If Mot finds him, we are going to get sent back to Dirkland, or-” 

“Or worse, he’s Malix and we are harboring a criminal. I know.” He finishes the sentence and turns to look at the boy. They both watch the unmoving child, both knowing the consequences for housing runaways. Neither of them knows his story, but assumptions are easy to make. 

“We need to know,” Marq says, walking over to the bedside, and Amelia’s mouth goes agape.

“Marq, stop!” She says, grabbing his arm and he shrugs her off. She stops and locks her jaw as he crouches beside the bed. “Marq you don’t have to,” She coaxes tensely as she walks forward. She watches helplessly as he gently places his hand squarely on the boy's forehead and with his other hand pulls the blindfold over his head.

His long blonde hair fell messily over his closed eyes. Amelia’s outstretched hand slowly closes into a tense fist. 

“Ill be right back, no sweat.” He smiles. When he opens his eyes a shock runs up her back. Cold, cold blue eyes met hers and she watches as his one dish plate-sized pupil shrinks to match the other pinpoint dot. Both individuals stay frozen but only one is still  _ there _ , staring into empty ethereal blue eyes. 

She holds her fists tensely at her sides and looks at the ground. “You are,” She pauses, “Such a dickhead.” 

Amelia had stood patiently like a guard dog for twenty minutes before she retired to sitting on her table. She waited for another hour, picking splinters out of the rough wood and avoiding the blank eyes across the tent. 

Without warning, Marq gasps and shoves himself away from the bed, one hand clasped over his eyes and the other propping holding him upright. Amelia flinches also and corrects her gaze to him. In an instant, she slid off the table and moved to his side with a blindfold in hand. 

"Hey Marq, it's okay. You are alright. It's Amelia." She said, placing her hand on his shoulder. She backed away slightly when he flinched away from it. "You are alright. You are back in our tent in Ciruga. Your name is Marques Dirk, I am your friend. Do you remember?" She asked gently and he nodded slightly, jaw locked in place.

"I have something to cover your eyes, so I need you to move your hand." She said slowly. Amelia watched him slowly remove his hand from his shut eyes and she moved behind him. She tied the black fabric she cut from some sheets to replace the old dirty bandage he normally had, careful not to trap any of his hair under it. She shifted back to his side and looked at the unmoving boy, trying to ignore how she could feel him vibrating beside her.

The fear struck in the friend made a pit form in her stomach, almost a guilty feeling. She knows she couldn't stop Marq, no one really could once he made his mind up. Most of all, she can only do so much to help him after he jumps. They both get into people's heads, but she has the security of it being a mental exercise. 

One night shortly after they had met, they mutually decided that it would be best if they each described the way that their traits worked. Amelia had put it simply; Seeing the world through another person's eyes. 

Marq's was simple too, but she didn't understand it till weeks later.

Living history.

And she saw him jump weeks later into the mind of a young woman who came into their camp. She said she had gotten lost in the woods and lost her caravan, but she couldn't remember the direction she ran. Marq had held her hand and took his blindfold off. He led her to where her family was, all waiting for her to return.

For days afterward, Amelia questioned how he did it, and he told her the truth. He had climbed inside her history, right where he needed to be, and watched her run through the woods. So he knew the way back. 

"He is Malix,” Marq said suddenly, "He was running from his townspeople." Amelia looked at him in surprise as he continued. "They beat him and… Th- They were going to burn him. They chased him in the woods for days.” His voice shook as he spoke, “He… God, he killed him. He killed a man in those woods," he paused and he ran his hands through his hair as if he was refocusing himself, "Everything before that is blurry," he whispered.

"What kind," she found herself saying quick and firm, "What can he do? What about when he woke up. What was that like?"

"I don't... Think he knows he's Malix. I don't think he understands what it is. It sounds like he was an alchem…" Marq trails off and his head lols a bit. Amelia puts her hand on his shoulder. 

"Is this too much?"

"An alchemist b- but there's more to it- that would be enough alone to get him sent to Dirkland. When he got to the camp, he couldn't even hear you. It was like walking through fog and the world blended and spun and everything was just underwater.” He inhaled shallowly, “That was the first time he stopped in days.” He shudders and puts his hands on either side of his head. “God, and the nightmares. Fever dreams from the Ruabar and his body being so fucked,” He spat, “He woke up and he thought- He saw- His world was just a fever dream! It was all just fear and pain. I swear it's like we woke up and it was it was just shapes.” He finishes and inhales raggedly, then bites his lip, “He. He woke up.” 

She studies his face and her hand slides off of his shoulder. “No, go back. You’re talking too fast. ‘We’? Nightmares? More than just alchemy?”

He gestures limply to the boy on the bed. “He's been having nightmares while he recovers I saw them.” He pauses. “And there is no we, I just m- misspoke. It feels like ‘we’ sometimes. And someone he knew was a botanist before it was banned or something like that. He studied their notebooks..” He shakes his head. “I...There was more than that though. It was just a feeling- I just had a feeling, like uh… Like maybe animals take to him a little too quickly, or he talked and birds would… Listen.  _ I _ listened.”

Amelia scowls, “So, like, he's persuasive.”

“No,” he states firmly, “He doesn't even try. It's just like, charm. He goes off of charm.”

“Charm is a good… Wait, his name. What's his name.”  
Marq snaps and holds his head, trying to summon the memory, “Right, yeah, uhm…” He says, still snapping, “It was a blackbird, a little one. Or like, a chess piece.” He pauses and his face untightens. “Rook, his name is Rook.” 

* * *

The next 2 days were dedicated to Amelia registering a military brat that never existed. Marq formulated the story of a refugee named Rook Ysnar who fled the abandoned Nosiagan cities during the beginning of the outbreak. He had lost his leg in a hunting incident that left him both disabled and flighty. Folki would come in the evenings and monitor the boy's condition, checking his leg and his hand, as well as slowly removing the dreads from his head. 

By the time the 14th rolled around the little emaciated boy was still as skeletal and bruised as his first day, but he was clean. His forever chapped lips were no longer riddled with open cuts, his nose was more green than purple around the edges of the bandages, and his hand had finally stopped making a point of bleeding every time it was even prodded. 

Amelia had taken to sticking to the other side of the room so she could watch him from the Marq’s desk. Every day, Marq started the day by preparing a large pot of soup with their dried rations and things he found in the field and forests- Folki definitely helped with his knowledge of the flora but it was Marq who did the cooking. Today’s was made up of pork and cabbage. It was disgusting green color but it tasted nice, and he was sure that Rook would like it if he woke up. 

Amelia had been tapping her uninked pen on a blank sheet of paper, formulating a letter to her superiors who were likely on the road this very minute. She stops her incessant tapping when she hears a light groan from across the tent. Rooks uninjured hand is on his forehead and he looks pained as he scoots back to sit against the bed frame. He runs his willowy fingers through unruly black hair and down his face gingerly, fingers lingering on the patch over his eye. 

His gaze sweeps to Amelia immediately as if he could hear her tense breathing, and she watches as every muscle in his tiny body tightens. His expression is a drastic change from a few seconds prior. Tired, maybe a bit burdened and heavy, straight to taught, wide-eyed alertness. Amelia watches him as cool as possible, trying very hard to not send him to the floor. 

“Hey, kid.” She says as neutrally as she can manage, swirling her pen in a circle shape on her paper. His eyes dance downwards to her crossed legs barely visible through boards of the desk and then across her friendly but blank expression. He seems much more lucid than last time, this time taking care to suck up as much information from her as he can. He doesn't seem like he cares much about his environment, only the woman sat before him. He seems to swallow a massive dry lump and his hand slides the rest of the way down his face, favoring to grasp the blanket still over his lower half with a death grip. 

Rook opened his mouth and let out something that sounded more like a rasped gasp than a “Hi”. The light pouring into the tent from the front flap reflected in his silvery brown eyes. Amelia felt a tickle in the back of her head, and it made her nearly grimace. Even someone so small- So beaten- Could have been bolder than that, and she got the feeling that he was not one to keep his voice meek and low. 

She pushes the feelings away and smiles plainly. Uncrossing her legs lazily, she pauses when she sees Rook freeze and pale about ten shades. He looks even smaller and sicker than before. She feels her chest tighten at how disturbing his appearance truly is. Gray tinged tan skin, speckled with purple and red and green all across his face and arms. Wide eyes surrounded by bruised skin, sunk into his face as if they were pressed in. She ignores it and looks to her desk. 

“Marq- I don't know if you remember him- Made you some soup.” She fawns casually, hands gliding to the red-brown wooden bowl on her desk. She stands slowly and watches something feral enter his eyes, glancing at the bowl cradled in her hands. His eyes instantly found her face again, though, but he ever so slightly leans forward. She walks around the side of the desk, taking purposely slow and steady steps. She takes her eyes off the boy to watch her step and when she looks up again the boy is staring at the bowl held in her hands, and she smiles slightly. She sinks slightly when she is nearly within arm's reach of him and slowly holds the bowl out to the fixated boy. When he can grab it, he looks at her wide-eyed with expectation.

“I.. I ca.. Can... I..” He rasps, voice shaking and cracking. He follows up the broken statement with a fit of coughs which seem to throw back some of the made proggressive. He pushes himself as far back as he can manage, struggling to choke his coughs and keep his eyes on her as he draws in on himself. When he has caught his breath again, he stays coiled up into himself, head nestled protectively behind and in a net of lanky, thin arms. The blanket draped over his legs made him look larger, though, like a small bird puffing its feathers to ward off a predator. She keeps the soup held out, though, unflinching and expectant. 

After what could have been hours, Rook sinks downwards as the muscles in his body relax. He has come to rest his arms tiredly over his lap as he stars into the bowl of soup. She glances into the soup herself and when she looks up, she is met with sharp brown eyes on her. Not malicious, but desperate.

“I.. I can…” He rasps pleadingly, half gesturing to the bowl without removing his arm from his protection over the blank. He looks confused like he wasn't expecting it when Amelia holds the bowl out closer to the boy while nodding slightly. He hesitates, opening and closing his hand once, then leans forward slightly. He grabs the bowl as if it is the most precious thing he has ever seen and scoots backward again. He pauses, looking at her sheepishly. “Th-Thanks…” He murmurs, his voice thick with scratches and cracks, and he sets the bowl in his lap.

He takes a moment to stare into the bowl, then with brittle hands begins devouring the soup, each bite punctuated by a suspicious if not fearful glance at the unarmoured woman. Amelia pushes herself back and leans against her own desk, watching with a half-smile as the bowl of soup rapidly disappears. Marq had been right, the color doesn't seem to put him off. She couldn't help but smile, even if he looks at her like she was a bear or he eats spoonful after spoonful like she is about to rip the bowl from him. They’ve made progress, even traded a few words. 

After he thoroughly scrapes the bowl, she leans forward and holds out her hand. His shoulders curl inwards as if he was about to grow. He looks at her hand, then her face. He leans forward and places the wood in her hand, then shoots backward again as he begins to raise his knees to his chest. 

He freezes, questioning gaze aimed at Amelia, then looks down at his blankets. Amelia holds her breath and slowly, silently, slides the empty bowl onto the desk over her head. This time, her eyes don't leave him. She watches his hand let go of the blanket and meet the other half risen off the bed by his side, fingers crooked with unbidden tension. He outstretches his legs slowly and tracks the spaces that don't move right under the blanket. 

Amelia rises to her feet and Rook doesn't seem to notice, fixated on the lack of movement under the blanket from his now none existent right foot. His dark eyebrows drew in together in confusion, but the rest of his face remained untense, lips pursed and jaw set right. Amelia watches silently as his toes wriggle under the blanket and the blank look he takes when he sees the absence of movement from the right side. It is followed by a few beats of stillness, then again there is a faint movement of his foot turning on its side to his left, but none on his right. His face begins to redden on his cheeks and he bites his lip to stop it from trembling. 

He does it again, this time straightening his foot upward. Moisture begins to pool in his eye as his unwrapped hand raises and moves to clinch the brow and gray furs of the blanket. He pulls the blanket towards himself, staring hard at the tent that runs and crumples around his foot. He draws it back to his knees and he uncovers his bandaged foot- his only foot. 

She watches as he begins to shake, heavy large tears dropping from his unblinking eyelashes, but his face doesn't change expression. The tears trail down leaving sparkles in the sun on his bruised cheeks. Amelia decides that the silence was the worst, but horrible, gutted, grief-stricken, a wheeze that comes from the boy's slightly ajar mouth sends pains through her. She finds his anguished, watery eyes land on her and the wrist of his hand rises to cover his mouth as he gasps for air that he doesn't seem to find. Tears well again in an infinite pool as he gazes at her, now dull eyes begging for an answer to questions he can't find the words to ask. 

“I'm sorry,” She says without thinking, and again the boy makes a wheezing noise. This time is more frantic, he curls in on himself, shoving the blanket over his legs to cover the absence. Tears continually stream down his blotchy red face and he pants, trying to calm himself down, but he gasps again- This time in a fractured sob. His unnaturally thin fingers shake violently, hovering over the blanket like he doesn't want to touch his legs. Amelia hesitates and reaches her hand out to the boy.

Something in him panics and he lurches back, unable to get away from the heavyweight of her hand now on his shoulder. He freezes, staring into the blanket wide-eyed. Tears pour down his cheeks but his breath leaves him shallowly as if something has broken in his head. 

“I'm so, so, so sorry, Rook.” She says, each “so” like it had its own punctuation. She looks down and her fingers slide from the boy's shoulder, and he comes back to life. Reactionary sobs fill the air and he grasps her warm slender hand with panicked frail fingers. Again, his eyes hold questions with answers he already knows. The boy, shaking and having a fit of mixed cough, hiccups, and sobs, pulls her hand forward and presses her knuckles against his forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut in pain, trying hard to hold back his fit. 

Uncertain of herself, Amelia sits down on the bed just beside his legs and, being sure to cue herself, tentatively places her hand on the back of his head. Again, he jolts and freezes, but within a second he returns to his whispery wails, leaning into her like it is the only thing keeping him stuck to reality. He lets go of her hand and grasps at the sides of her shirt, and she let him. 

###  **Dedric Agler - April 18th 1286**

The sand felt disgusting and foreign crunching under her bulky fur boots. It was like it was trying to replicate the feeling of snow but lacked all of its good qualities. For instance, it stuck everywhere. It makes a disgusting noise under the carriage wheels and the hooves of her horse on the path to Regaro, the great keep the Klezerleb, the Hall of Heroes. What these people called the Lord’s Keep seemed to change in everyone town they stopped in. 

She runs her hand high above her head through her horse's black mane as she gazes at the bland landscape. It's easy to tell they are high up, the rise may have been gradual but the air feels different. The terrain is boring, rapidly alternating between sandy to rocky, and always covered with sweet seagrass- Hard and dark green. It was all behind them now, though, the flat barren landscape only sometimes littered with towns. She turns and looks up, taking her hand back to shield her eyes from the sun. The keep walls were not freakishly large, standing somewhere between 4 to 3 dozen feet high. This is just the outer wall, though. The thing that keeps to “noble folk” stuck inside. 

She scoffs and lowers her gaze to the barred steel gate in front of them. Her grimace fades to blank when she meets hazel eyes from a group of people- Lord and Staff. The eyes look to the ground as the sound of hoofbeats come beside her. She looks at the horse beside her, the figure in blue and black crunching to the ground with an assortment of metal noises. Their hood is removed and a flash of red blinds her momentarily- Long, wild red hair and mixed with short braids. 

“Hello Daxton, It took you long enough to catch up.” She says, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. 

“A bit hot, Rick? Maybe you should have changed back there with me.” He says, sounding snarky but seeming genuine. 

She looks at his black thin cape and solid dark blue, purple, and black clothing. He wears actual riding boots with no sand stuck to them. His clothing looks comfortable while she is just a sweaty bundle and gray furs and metal armor. The most armor he had was two steel gauntlets on his forearms exactly identical to hers. She watches his face light up with a crooked smile. 

“Change inside, no big deal. You’re just about to meet your future husband.” He says as he stands in front of his own horse, mirroring her. She punches him in the arm and he whines, holding his shoulder. 

The caravan is not huge. Two knights in silver and blue rode on either side of the siblings, the two horses driving the large plain carriage behind them, and four more horsemen on the road behind the carriage. Most of the family themselves can fight- They would not have brought the men if it weren't for the woman in the carriage. Of course, she and her brother had ridden in the front, far ahead of the group most of the time. 

The gate lurches upwards, jarring her from her thoughts, and she stands upright and puts her hands behind her back. She finally gets a good look at the noble-looking Seases, their clothing adorned with gold and the tallest, oldest man wearing a cape of jewels. 

The gate rises to climax and the knights fluidly move forward, followed by her and Dax leading their horses in. Almost as soon as they pass inside, a woman in all white with beautiful black hair scurries over from the group. She bows her head.

“I hope your journey was uneventful, Lady and Lord Agler. I will take your horses.” She says, head lowered. 

“Dedric is fine” “Daxton is fine” 

They look at each other in amusement, again in unison, then both hold their reigns out. 

“What's your name miss?” Daxton whispers, glancing at the strange looks some of the native group are giving him. 

“Tasha, my Lord. Daxton.” She says, smiling. “You two look just as identical as the stories.” She bows. “We will meet again.” She and the horses pad through the sand in the Bailey, out towards a set of stables.

They look at each other and both smile. “She was nice,” Dedric mumbles and Daxton scoots closer to her. 

“Oh yes, almost a normal human being.” He pauses, smiling his crooked smile as he scans the group that was watching the carriage pull in. “Do you see that one, there? Tall, greying, looking much too rich. Lord Lambert Sease himself. A snake, the books say.” He says, leaning into her and she nearly giggles, breaking her newfound composure. 

“That short one beside him looking equally as rich? His son, Jakob. Smart one, many say. Quite boring like you, no special magic.” She scowls at him and he continues, staring into the group again, “But that one? On the other side of our Lord? Looking quite like a staff member? Staring daggers into us? That's the famous Emerick Sease.” He elbows her gently. She looks in the direction of the boy in all brown beside his father. He looks uncomfortable, flighty. His large eyes took in as much information as he can manage, scanning the carriage currently being stopped inside the gate. 

“He's a bit… Out of place, isn't he?” She asks, keeping her eyes on him. 

“Maybe he is a normal person too…” He says, eyebrows raising and shuddering theatrically. She cracks her own smile, hoofbeats coast up to her other side. A man clatters down in furs almost identical to hers, but he stands far taller than her or Daxton. His red hair falls over his shoulders with streaks of gray and is spotted with braids and colorful beads. He is strong but he has a big grin on his face as he looks at the group. The staff there disperses as the Lord Lambert steps forward, arms out and smiling. 

“My dear old friend!” Lord Agler bellows, meeting him in a hug. They shake and smack each other on the back, and Dedric loses interest. 

“Daxton,” She says quietly, leaning to him slightly, “Is there something… Off about him.”

He looks a bit taken back. “Well, you know his reputation, don't you?”

“The basics. He’s Mursu Gambit, one of the best fighters in the south. A prodigy.”

He makes a tutting sound with his tongue a few times and shakes his head. “Just like you, but listen. He is Drowning Above Water.” He pauses when he feels her stiffen, “Don't believe they are monsters, Rick. He's a boy...But... They say, when you look into Mursu’s eyes, the void looks back.” 

“Delightful. I feel so much more confident in my husband.” She cringes slightly. 

_ A kept woman. Is that what I’ve become? _

“It's a match set in the stars. Two crazy tournament enthusiasts that are a little too good at killing people.”

“I really do not like you sometimes. And I don't kill people” She replies immediately and he begins walking forward, ignoring her. She watches her other half make a beeline for the chaos. Staff unloading the carriage, the two lords and Jakob making conversation. He walks right up the boy stuck wringing his hands together in the same spot. He almost looks startled that someone approaches him, and he makes a toothy anxious smile. They are the same height, a few inches taller than her maybe. She watches her brother speak fluently, gesturing as always as he adeptly worms his way into Emerick's heart. 

That kind woman, Miss Tasha, was right. They are uncannily identical. Same hairstyle, same strong nose, blocky eyebrows, pale winter-worn skin, round pink lips that curved up more one way when they smiled. Their eyes are their only difference. Daxton shares deep blue eyes with their father and brothers and she has the muted green eyes of her raven-haired mother. Like lakes and lichen. 

Emerick is not bad-looking, just more rough than his decadent family. His skin tanned far more, honey-colored eyes looked like the glow from this far. His face square, whiles hers and Dax’s are pointy. His brown hair is a thick, curly mop strewn every which way. The scar blatantly obvious on his jawline and on his exposed collarbone makes her curious but a bit sick. She peels her eyes away from him and the world spins, deciding to close them for a moment.

She opens them again and the world is slightly brighter and slightly louder. She grimaces and walks towards the door to the throne room, pushing her way past people with an undetermined amount of force. She feels the sheathed sword beat off of people’s legs and she ignores it, darting into the wide-open doors.

The inside is immediately darker and cooler, making the sweat on her face and back cool instantly. She closes her eyes, soaking up the quieter interior. The chatter outside lulls her to the table atop where the throne would be. She walks over, lost in her head with thoughts of music and her sword in her hand, and gently runs her hand over the map of Nedred spread on the table. She runs her fingers over the massive state of Stalward, unlabeled but she knows where her own home is. The Northernmost state. Her eyes make their way down the map; the Southernmost state- Klezerleb. A different world. Home sweet home. 

She removes her hand from the table as if it burns. She holds her hand and rubs it as the pitter-patter of quick footsteps come behind her. She turns and is met with the slender, pale raven-haired woman in a shimmery blue dress accompanied by black leggings and flats. She smiles politely and Dedric looks at her blankly. 

“Oh, my dear girl, oh!” She says as she reaches out and futzes with her hair, her mouth in an O shape. “What a mess… You should have ridden in the carriage, darling.” She brushes two braids and a mass of her thick straight hair from her face. She winces like the hand near face is genuinely painful. “Mamma, please don't. I will clean up when I have my room and things.”

“Oh well that's perfect, preparations were made ahead of time. Daxton and you will be on opposite ends of the hall, my and our lord's room will be in between.”

She stares at the woman for a moment, sucking in her plain, happy expression. “No. I want a conjoined room. I would rather sleep on his floor then-”

“Not this again.” She rolls her eyes.

“-Then sleep alone in a place I know nothing about. You're fears of scandalization are ridiculous, mother. My fears of strangers are warranted.”

A flash of anger contorts her face, but only for a moment. “What you should be doing is sleeping in the room beside you betrothed.” She says so casually but Dedric flinches as she crosses her arms. “You should count yourself lucky you are not in a tower with him.”

Dedric scans her, microexpressions of displeasure barely visible on her face. She bows her head slightly. “Thank you, Mamma. I will rearrange the rooms myself.” She says and darts past her mother before she has room to speak. She doesn't look back as she scurries down the hall, unaware of where she is going until she hears laughter bubble up from an unknown location. She stops and looks back and forth up and down a four-way intersection. What's wrong with this place? It's bigger on the inside. 

She follows the laughter and finds a burst of red hair and a drabe mix of brown dancing around each other in the hall, the redhead circling around with something in his hand. She backs up to the corner and peeks out so as not to reveal herself. They laugh together, Emerick placing his hands on his knees as Daxton shouts about something incoherent. How long had she been looking at the map? Or talking to Mamma? 

She waits a few more moments, a soft smile creeping onto her face as she watches the joy come off in waves around them. Daxton has had this magical ability ever since they were children, he brings light everywhere he goes. Women back home swooned for him and would quite literally fight for him. Damn shame he doesn't like girls. 

She rubs her hands on her pants, only realizing they were sweaty when they come away slightly sticky. She straightens herself and walks around the corner, one hand on her sword and one behind her back. Daxton continues carrying on but Emerick’s laughter dies down rather quickly when he catches sight of her. He seems to grow a little taller. 

Daxton chooses to ignore this. “Dedric, look at this!” He holds something in the air and she darts the rest of the way over, quizzically looking at a ball that seems to be made out of glass. There was something on the bottom though, it was trapped in the ball. “Watch, watch- Are you ready?” He says, then shakes it. It makes a liquid noise and instantly the ball fills with reflectively silvery specks in a clear liquid. She fights the urge to grasp it from him and kills the light in her eyes. She clears her throat. 

“Daxton, Mother is trying to separate our rooms again. I'm going to be sleeping in your room. I can ask for a bed to be moved.” She says evenly, a hint of a smile on her face. 

“Oh, Rick that's perfect, I'm right under Emerick’s room.” He suddenly begins to giggle, “Rick and Rick…” 

Dedric suppresses the feeling of nausea that boils up inside of her. She will have time to think about that after she is clean and fed. She narrowly misses Emerick’s eyes sink to the floor and she looks at Daxton expectantly. He scowls at her and points down the hall. 

“The very end, can’t miss it- Em are you…”

She turns and leaves, not hiding her excitement to lock herself somewhere. She finds the door with a plain bedroom inside. Wardrobes, double bed, chests, a window across the room from the corner door. The towers must get thinner as they get higher because this room could easily for another person, plus her and Dax. She slams the door shut with her back and leans against it, pulling her boots off. She walks forward and begins unbuckling the armor wrapped around her midsection and stops. She turns and locks the door, looks around the room, and then unbuckles her armor. She strips her cloak and coat, layers of fur down to a disgusting sweaty short sleeve tunic and trousers. She then scans the room, tossing her furs and armor on the neatly made brown bed. Across the wall the entrance was, there is a door which leads to a bathroom- One of the many good things about Klezerleb is their guaranteed modern-age bathrooms. It was still better to fill tubs with fire-boiled water but there also happens to be a fireplace across from the bed. What a weird feature for a warm place, maybe the winters are horrible. 

She rifles through the room in search of clothes or tunics and bandages or pots- Anything useful. She finds a pair of braises and a matching brown, short sleeve tunic. 

_ How immodest.  _ She muses.  _ I'll get scolded for this one, definitely.  _

She sighs, digging through a service closet beside the fireplace (She willfully ignores the wall-mounted coat rack on the other side) and finds the holy grail and bandages and pots. 

She pulls the two large industrial pots out, scowls at them, and puts the other back. Fire isn't big enough for both. She fills the pot in the tub and scoots it onto the unlit fir, then returns to the closet. If only her brother were here, he could just snap his fingers and light it. She grimaces as she finds a flint and steel and banishes the thought from her head. She's got this. 

Within the next hour, and almost burning her hand a few times, Dedric stood in the bathroom staring at the steam rise from the tub. She turns and looks at the door again, double-checking it's locked, and then again gazes around the room and only to find the yellow light of the candles. She exhales slowly, face blank and she pulls the tunic off her strong, wiry body. She makes a point of avoiding the mirror right above the tub and looks at her arm despite herself. She closes her eyes and wobbles, fighting the sudden taste of bile in her mouth and her flipping stomach. She doesn't like looking at it, she doesn't like thinking about what happened. Even a glance left a burning sensation on her skin where the scar gnarled up her forearm like a tree trunk, just above her wrist and just below her elbow. 

She drops her shirt on the ground and strips off her pants, then undergarments, then quickly slides into the blissfully warm water. She cant help but audibly sigh in relief at how her body immediately untenses. She leans back against the porcelain and slips down, getting the tips of her hair wet, neck bent over the side. She sits for a long time, then slips all the way down till her head is underwater. She stays, blowing bubbles through her nose and running her hands through her hair, working out kinks and grease. She reaches for the lye soap bar on the side of the tub and rises from the water, rubbing it in her hands then through her hair. Her hands, her arms, her toro, and legs go in that order and she slips down again to rinse off. 

She stays there long after she blows her air, lost in her thoughts. She doesn't want this to be the last day of the best years of her life. She doesn't want to be here, an outsider in a strange world. She shudders, will Daxton leave her alone here? After all is said and done will he leave her? Alone with… She curls in on herself slightly as her thoughts travel to Emerick. She doesn't want to be near him. She doesn't want to look at him. She doesn't want to marry him… She doesn't want to- She suddenly becomes nauseous, rising from the water and gasping and at the shocking cold. 

She whips her faces with her hand and brings her knees to her chest. She doesn't want to think about the wedding, the wedding night. She lays her forehead on her knees and hugs her legs, trying to think about the water lapping over her body. She loses herself in the feeling, though, and the lapping becomes fingers and hands grazing her thighs and sides. She rubs at her skin, head still buried but her movements frantic, and when it doesn't work she stands and steps out of the tub. She grabs the towel and wraps it around her body, shivering in the air that really isn't that cold. She is pulling her tunic over her head when the door to the bedroom opens. She freezes.

“Dedric, Im coming.” Daxton calls and the door closes behind him. She hears it lock and she relaxes slightly. 

“Getting dressed, I'll be there in a moment.” She says as she pulls the baggy braises up her legs, ignoring the hot feelings of hands on her body. She unlocks the bathroom door and steps out to a grinning Dax. 

“What's up with you?” She asks monotone and picks her furs up from beside him on the bed. 

He shakes his head. “I'm just excited to live here. It's so different but almost familiar. I feel like I’ve known Emerick my whole life, and Miss. Tasha found me earlier and snuck me a cookie.” 

“You are a child.” She says firmly and walks back to the bathroom to comb her hands through her hair in the mirror. 

“We were literally born the same day. I'm like 15 minutes older than you, even.” 

“And yet, I'm so much cooler than- Hey! Don't throw stuff!” 

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to leave comments and criticisms :) I'm prolly gonna finish up the map I'm making cus its like,, hella important, ill try to finish it after the next upload!


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